


Everybody Hurts

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, Drama, Episode: s02e01 In the Shadow of Two Gunmen Part I, Episode: s02e02 In the Shadow of Two Gunmen Part II, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-14
Updated: 2006-03-14
Packaged: 2019-05-15 15:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14793374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Josh is recovered physically, but will his mental wounds causehim and people in his life harm?





	Everybody Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Everybody Hurts**

**by:** Divine Miss Kris 

**Character(s):** Donna Moss, Josh Lyman  
**Pairing(s):** Josh/Donna  
**Category(s):** Angst/Drama  
**Rating:** ADULT  
**Summary:** Josh is recovered physically, but will his mental wounds cause him and people in his life harm?  
**Spoiler:** 2-01 In the Shadow of Two Gunmen I  
**Written:** 2006-02-21  
**Feedback:** Send feedback with, well, feedback.  
**Author's Note:** Perhaps the beginning of a new series, perhaps a stand alone. I'm only going to write the end of this little encounter if I get the feedback saying it's warranted.

I let myself into the apartment with my key, careful not to make too much noise and wake my sleeping patient. My first clue all was not well was the darkness – ever since Josh had come home from the hospital, we’d leave the light over the stove burning. Figuring he’d just conked out and forgotten, I toed off my heels and scrunched my toes in the carpet. I’d had fun that Friday night with CJ in what had been her attempt to coax me from the apartment and my duties as nurse, babysitter and 24-hour-a-day assistant. Still, I’d begged off when the clock struck one, citing the need to rest before a busy day of preparations for Josh to rejoin the West Wing on Monday. 

I shuffled from the door to the occasional table, where I dropped my keys and flipped the switch on the small lamp that sat there. 

“Leave it off,” I heard a voice, all at once familiar and foreign, say from the living room. I flipped the switch one more time and moved toward the sound. For the first time, by the faint light streaming in through the window, I saw he was there. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I took in the scene: Josh sat in the dark in his chair, fully dressed, highball glass in hand. On the end table next to him sat a half-full bottle of Crown Royal. 

“Where’d you find the booze, Joshua?” I teased, a little tipsy myself. I should have been mad at him, what with the massive surgery he was still recovering from and his sensitive system, but then I figured perhaps he deserved a little break too. 

“Desk drawer,” he said, again in that voice I knew so well tinged with something I didn’t. “Figured might as well.” I shuffled closer and took the glass from his hand. I smelled the sharpness of it and took a sip. It burned going down, causing me to grimace as I walked toward the kitchen to dump the rest of it. I ran water into the sink and in the glass to assure the place wouldn’t smell like a frat house in the morning, and once that task was done, I ventured back towards my boss, who hadn’t moved from his nest. 

“Come on,” I said, reaching for his hand to help him out of the chair. “It’s late and we’ve got a lot of work left to get done for Monday.” He batted my hand away and stood, only slightly unsteady even after his little binge tonight. 

“Meet any gomers tonight?” he questioned, and for a second I almost felt as though we were in the White House, doing a post-mortem on another one of my dismal dates. He walked past me, not particularly waiting for my answer. 

“Oh, you know the typical Republican flies were circling, but none were quite hot enough for the Sisterhood,” I quipped, trying to hold on to the feeling of the banter I suddenly sorely missed. He paused in the doorway to the bathroom, turned and cocked his head at me. 

For a moment he said nothing, then simply, “Shower,” before he reversed and closed the door behind him quietly. I waited a few moments before I heard the shower come to life, then headed toward the bedroom and my pajamas, pulling my hair down from it’s messy updo in the process. 

I showered quickly, regretting the alcohol I’d ingested tonight. I hadn’t had a drink since Rosslyn, and when I stumbled upon the bottle tonight as I was cleaning out my desk at home, I couldn’t resist. Donna was out having a good time, so why shouldn’t I? 

After contemplating and rejecting the idea of making myself throw up, I turned the scalding water off and pulled the shower curtain aside. As I was grabbing the towel off the hook on the wall, I happened to catch a glimpse of my naked body. On my good days, I can see how fit I am now, thanks to the long, painful hours of physical therapy. I can see how now, after three months of recuperation, I don’t have the bags under my eyes that seem to have been there since Nashua. Bad days, however, I have only one focus, and this is a bad day amplified by whiskey. 

I wrapped the towel around my waist and wiped the steam from the mirror with my hand, my eyes never leaving that spot on my upper left chest. More specifically I saw my torso marked by hatred and made horrifically ugly. Why did this happen? Yea, I knew it happened because some bigots decided Charlie and Zoëy shouldn’t be together, but why me? Why was I marked for the rest of my life by their hatred? Why should I have a reminder of all the injustice in the world on my chest where I have to see it every day? Why should I want to shirk away from my own naked reflection because every time I see my chest, I think “hatred and pain?” Furthermore, what woman would ever want me with this grotesque mark on me? What woman would ever want to make love to me and feel this under her hands while we were fucking? 

I leaned closer to the mirror, my anger at everything that had happened suddenly bubbling, boiling to the surface. Why did this happen to me? Why? WHY? Why did I have to be the one who HURTS? 

I yawned as I walked into Josh’s room with a bottle of water, which I sat on the nightstand. I flipped the comforter down, and it was soon joined by the sheets. The air conditioning was cool on my legs and arms as I’d exchanged the night’s bar clothes for cotton shorts and a tank top. I eyed his bed longingly, knowing soon enough I’d trade his couch for my own bed. I loved staying here with him and helping him heal, but three months on a couch was rough on anyone. Suddenly I realized I couldn’t hear the shower anymore. 

“Josh?” I shouted. “Are you OK?” He didn’t answer my first call, so I asked again. “Josh?” This time my answer came in the form of a loud crash. Fearful that he’d hurt himself, I walked to the door and tried the knob. When it turned easily in my hand, I cautiously started to push the door open. He yanked the door the rest of the way and just glared at me for a second. Something about him wasn’t right, and frankly, it almost scared me. 

And then he came at me. 

What in the hell did she want from me? Can’t I have this time to reflect on my new very fucked up life? Or did she want to come in and stare at the beastly marks on my chest? When she cracked the door, I’d had it. I flung the door the rest of the way open and just glared at her. I watched as her eyes flitted down my half-naked body and settled, just for a second on my scar. The slight grimace on her face as she took in my brand was enough to put me over the edge. She just proved every little fear I’d had as I looked in the mirror. And I hated her for that. 

“What are you LOOKING at, Donna?” I yelled in her face. “Are you checking out my new scars? Don’t they make me look COOL?” She looked at me with wide eyes as she backed away from the doorway. I slowly pursued her, not content to let this lie. “Look at me. Who is going to want me? Who, Donna? NOBODY! WHO’S GONNA WANT ME?” 

It was too much. I couldn’t do this anymore. I needed to feel better. I needed to wipe the vision of my scars, burned in my brain, away. I needed to feel something good instead of pain and sadness and depression. I needed to feel. I needed ... 

I pounced on her, once arm going around her body, pulling her against me, and the other hand moving to pull her head to mine. And suddenly I was kissing her. I’d often pictured my first kiss with Donnatella Moss, and this wasn’t it. This was what I wanted. I wanted to feel good, not alone. And this was the best way to do it. 


End file.
